Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

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“No, no, really. It is.” Jack stopped himself before swearing to it, but his tone dripped with sincerity—although it was a bit soprano for any kinship to the Duke. A deeper, manlier chuckle preceded, “You’ve been around dozens of dogs, right? Hundreds, maybe. But I’ll bet this is the first, the only one you’ve ever met that was actually named Fido.”

On closer inspection, her velvet brown eyes were older, wiser and sadder than a thirty-something woman’s should be. It aroused Jack’s curiosity and an inner Don Quixote he thought was deader than Cervantes.

“Okay,” she said, “no bet. I’ve never met anybody who named his dog Fido.” Her expression implied she still hadn’t. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Uh, no.” Dogs needed reservations?

“It’s a good thing she’s small. We’re full up on medium and large boarders.”

The groomer reached for a clipboard, paged through several sheets, then frowned. “Except if she needs to stay past the weekend…”

“Just overnight.” Jack McPhee, private investigator, finally nudged aside Jack McPhee the lovelorn nonromantic. “I’m a sales rep for LeFleur & Francois Jewelers in Chicago.” His shrug expressed a redundancy akin to specifying New York in reference to Harry Winston’s. “See, uh, our chief designer had an eleventh-hour brainstorm. The sales team’s flying in to decide if the piece will be included in the fall line, or held for next spring.”

His original cover bio would have been smoother without the impromptu embellishments. Then again, a bumbled inside-the-park homer still counted on the scoreboard.

“So, you travel a lot?” she asked.

“Constantly.” A gem—pun intended—of a detail clicked into place. “Normally I lug around a sample case.” He sighed. “Thank heaven for small favors, I can leave the case at home for once.”

The groomer regarded Fido née Sweetie Pie Snug ’Ems, then her presumed owner. “It’s none of my business, but if she hasn’t boarded at TLC before, what do you usually do with her when you’re out of town?”

An excellent question. Jack scrambled for an answer. “Ah, uh, um, well, Swe—er, Fido—was my mother’s dog, then she died. My mother, I mean. I sort of inherited her—the dog—but I do most of my traveling by car, so from now on she can go along and keep me company.”

A pause ensued, lengthy enough for Jack to reinflate his lungs and silently ask his perfectly healthy mother’s forgiveness. The explanation must not have sounded patently absurd, let alone bullshitic to the groomer, for she expressed condolences, then removed a blank registration form from a drawer.

At her prompting, he supplied his name and an emergency phone number. The given address was a vacant house furnished by the listing Realtor. Its chi-chi neighborhood hadn’t yet been scathed by the Calendar Burglar.

“How old is Fido?” the groomer inquired.

“Six” was Jack’s wild-hare guess.

“Any food allergies you’re aware of?”

A rash with minor welt action would be fair payback for the tie the Maltese was gnawing holes in. Having observed the teeth marks in Ms. Pearl’s furniture, throw pillows, shoes and handbag, Jack figured the dog’s tummy wasn’t particularly sensitive.

“Her shots are up-to-date?”

No doubt about that one. Ms. Pearl wasn’t the type to deny or delay her little darling’s wellness care.

“Veterinarian’s name?”

Aw, for crying out loud. The furball wasn’t applying for a seat on the next space shuttle. To Jack’s enormous relief, the groomer snagged the rabies tag dangling on Sweetie Pie Snug ’Ems’s collar and copied the vet’s name and office number.

A few minutes later, he walked to his car happily dogless and thoroughly edified in boarding-kennel protocol. Also bereft of TLC’s pretty, very short groomer’s name and home phone number.

An opportunity to pop those questions hadn’t presented itself. Such as her referring to Jack by name, so he could coolly, casually reply, “And yours?”

“Tomorrow, pilgrim.” He buckled the seat belt. “First you have to catch the bad guy. Then you get the girl.”

Dina cuddled the Maltese. Its button eyes goggled and darted, much like Harriet’s when waking in her chair, uncertain whether she’d nodded off or was kidnapped by Martians and returned in the blink of a tractor beam.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetie,” Dina murmured.

The dog’s head swiveled upward. It looked at her, still a bit perplexed, yet oddly reassured.

She kissed the crown of its silky head, breathing in—

Dina took a second, deeper whiff. Pond’s cold cream and Estée Lauder perfume?

“What a cutie patootie.” Gwendolyn Ellicot swung open the gate between the hallway and the grooming station. “What’s his name?”

“Hers,” Dina corrected. “And it’s Fido, if you can believe that.”

“Not the dog’s.” The kennel’s owner grinned and pointed toward the parking area. “The guy who brought her in.” She moved to the counter and picked up Fido’s registration form. “By what I saw from my office, he took one look at you and forgot he owned a dog.”

Gwendolyn’s ruling passions were dogs and fix-ups. Trust her to slap a cutie-patootie label on any man who’s ambulatory, old enough to vote and bathes regularly.

There was nothing above average about Jack McPhee. Medium height, medium build. His medium brown hair had an eleven-o’clock part and was blocked in back a half inch above his shirt collar. Even the car rolling down the driveway was midsize and as medium blue as his eyes.

Dina couldn’t imagine why a funny feeling, like a hunger pang on spin cycle, had ziggled south of her rib cage when they made eye contact. And now, just thinking about it.

She sloughed it off along with her part-time employer’s incurable matchmaking. “Forget it, Auntie Mame. Even if I was interested, which I’m not, Mr. McPhee isn’t my type.” She patted Fido’s pouffy head. “And I’m pretty sure I’m not his type.”

Gwendolyn crossed her arms, as if fending off Cupid’s evil twin. “Then why was he flirting with you?”

“I wouldn’t call it—”

“All right, so that tie of his probably glows in the dark, but the suit was Brooks Brothers. My husband has one exactly like it—or did, until he gave up trying to lose thirty pounds and I took it to a resale shop.”

“Will you—”

“Jack McPhee lives on LakeShore Boulevard, Dina.” Gwendolyn tapped the registration form, emphasizing each syllable, as one might impress upon a small child a need to clean her room. “Starter homes in that development have four bathrooms.”

Not much of an incentive, since Dina couldn’t keep two bathrooms clean. She held up the Maltese. “See the collar?”

“Pink. So what? She’s female, it matches the leash and—”

“Check out the pedicure.”

Gwendolyn blanched a little, then flapped a hand. “You detest painting dogs’ toenails, but some groomers think it’s cute. And McPhee could have a daughter that thinks it’s cute, too.”

“Doubtful, unless she’s adopted.” Dina set Fido on the counter. “Smell her head.”

“What? Why?”

“Humor me.”

Gwendolyn leaned over, sniffed, recoiled, then sniffed again. “Well, hell.”

That’s pretty much how Dina felt, too, though she’d never admit it. Mother McPhee’s recent demise might explain the lingering aroma of cold cream and perfume, except Fido had been shampooed and trimmed in the past week.

“Life is so unfair,” Gwendolyn moaned. “Things were hard enough when all the good ones were either married or dead.”

Dina chuckled and handed off the Maltese. “If you wouldn’t mind paging Laura to get Miss Fido settled in and give her a snack, I have to finish Claude’s comb-out.”

The puli-Labrador mix snoozing on the grooming table was one strange-looking fellow. Claude’s owners spent a fortune keeping its ropy coat from matting into plaited scales, and it loved being fussed over. Using the table’s noose-like restraint on Claude was like tethering a dog-shaped topiary before clipping it. The trick was coaxing Claude down to the floor afterward.

As Dina toed the milk crate back into position, Gwendolyn said, “How’s your mom doing with the oxygen therapy?”

“Better.” Dina sighed. “When she stays hooked up to the machine, instead of using the portable tank in the living room like a rescue inhaler.”

“Then it won’t be a problem if Mrs. Allenbaugh is running a little late for her appointment.”

Gwendolyn’s tone entwined a question with a conclusion.

Dina consulted the antique Seth Thomas above the office window. Mrs. Allenbaugh was always a little late. When, of course, she wasn’t a lot early. If the daffy old bat owned a Chihuahua, instead of a standard poodle, the timing wouldn’t matter as much.

“How late is late?”

“She promised to be here before noon.”

Meaning eleven fifty-nine, but Dina couldn’t afford to kiss off her fee and a generous tip. She did some mental clockwork herself. “I’ll just have to race across town and give Mom her shot before Mrs. Allenbaugh gets here.”

Gwendolyn smiled the smile of a dog caretaker with a six-person staff. She squeezed Dina’s shoulder. “Relax, okay? I know Betty Allenbaugh’s a pain, but now you have a whole hour between your nine-thirty and ten-thirty to check on Harriet.”

Dina nodded and smiled back, as if a diabetic’s insulin injections were as mutable as a scatterbrained poodle owner’s watch.

6

“McPhee Investigations.”

“Great news.” Gerry Abramson’s telephone voice belied the salutation. “I just heard the Calendar Burglar ripped off another of my insureds last Thursday night.”

Jack sat back in the desk chair. Hell of a way to start a Saturday, even though he’d slept away most of the morning. “You’re sure it’s the same thief?”

“He didn’t leave a calling card, but the cops think so. This time, along with the jewelry, he snatched an iPod and a laptop. Both brand-new, still in their boxes for donation to a charity auction.”

The police had likely alerted retailers who sold that type of electronics in the event of a no-receipt return. A full-price refund versus a fence’s standard dime on the dollar made wonderful economic sense. Stupid wasn’t part of this burglar’s M.O. to date, but neither was boosting high-tech toys.

Jack copied down the victim’s address—a mile from his stakeout last night on LakeShore Boulevard. He reminded himself that Gerry hadn’t hired him until Thursday afternoon. It still felt like a “Screw you, McPhee” to have been shuffling police reports and claim forms while the thief made another haul.

A whimper at floor level could be interpreted as “Can we go now?” The sheltie doing it was Sweetie Pie Snug ’Ems’s replacement. Ms. Pearl reneged on her weekend loan, saying she couldn’t bear another night in an empty apartment.

The sheltie’s owner, Angie Meadows, hadn’t been alone at hers, nor happy to be wakened at the crack of eleven by a P.I. needing a favor. The voluptuous server at Jack’s second-favorite bar was also a canine loan shark. They’d settled on a hundred dollars to rent a dog shedding enough hair on the carpet and Jack’s pants to cost three sheep their livelihoods.

“Your burglary victims,” he said into the phone. “You wouldn’t happen to know if they have a dog, would you?”

“A dog?” A pause, then, “Now that you mention it, yes. One of those huge, jowly things that slobbers all the time.” Another beat’s worth of dead air. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason in particular.” Jack feigned a chuckle. “Just be glad you pay me by the day, instead of by every weird question I come up with.”

“Answers,” Gerry shot back. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

The click and a dial tone weren’t surprising, given the insurance agent’s frustration. No doubt Abramson was kicking himself for not bringing in outside help sooner. He hadn’t expected results in under seventy-two hours. It didn’t stop him from wanting them like yesterday.

So did Jack, though he wouldn’t have bet a plug nickel the trap would work on the first try. Common sense just never quite dashed the hope for a little dumb luck. If it did, the only snake eyes rolled in Vegas would be attached to actual snakes.

The sheltie barked. Jack yelped and jolted backward in his chair. Obviously pleased with itself, the dog twirled and bounced on its front paws, like a demented fox subjected to way too many Rogaine treatments. And not nearly enough Ritalin.

Jack’s heart gradually defibrillated. “Okay, all right already. One phone call, then we’re outa here.”

Skeptical it would keep its yap shut, he ripped a page from a legal pad, wadded it and threw it across the room. Forty-three fetches later, Abramson’s latest claimant haughtily affirmed the impossibility of a noise complaint the previous Thursday night at her address. As she put it, her English bull mastiff was “off premises.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I need specifics to quash this complaint. Was your dog staying with a relative, a friend…?”

“Certainly not. Winston was kenneled, until early this morning.”

Jack swallowed to drown any hint of elation. “And the name of the kennel, please?”

“Well, if you must know, it’s—” A brief silence segued to murky muffles, as though she’d dunked the receiver in a bucket of oil. Gibberish, then, “He says he’s—” A louder summons to “Officer Garble-garble” provided excellent cues for Jack to deep-six the call.